


where everybody knows your name

by mzanthropist



Series: Interludes [1]
Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Post-Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-07
Updated: 2016-04-07
Packaged: 2018-05-31 20:07:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6485713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mzanthropist/pseuds/mzanthropist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Karen and Matt run into each other at Josie's.</p>
            </blockquote>





	where everybody knows your name

“Burning the midnight oil, I see.”

 

Karen’s eyes stop their diligent perusal of the PDF on her laptop and flick to the clock display in the corner of the screen. “It’s barely nine,” she says, gaze lifting to fix her editor with an unamused look. “Hardly late enough to accuse someone of midnight oil burning.”

 

“Oh, is it?” Ellison makes a show of checking his watch. “My bad,” he shrugs, hand dropping back to his side. “My contempt for long weekends – particularly those involving holidays I only celebrate for the sake of my kids and to pacify the in-laws – must be screwing with my sense of time.”

 

Karen snorts, her stern façade cracking in spite of herself. She arches a brow. “I take it Easter’s not your cup of tea?”

 

Ellison levels her with a droll stare. “Look at me, Page?” he says, arms thrusting open. “Do I look like the type of person who gets a kick out of decorating eggs and takes absolutely no issue with inviting a grown man in a bunny costume into his house?”

 

“Well…”

 

“The correct answer is ‘hell fucking no’.”

 

“Damn,” Karen curses, the utterance belied by the laughter in her voice. “I was going to go with a simple ‘hell no’, but I see now that that expletive was absolutely vital.”

 

Ellison shakes his head in wry amusement. “You know,” he segues, settling himself against the doorjamb, arms folding across his chest, “this is the second time I’ve found you in this office on a holiday.”

 

“Pot calling the kettle black, don’t you think?”

 

He shrugs. “Maybe, but my aversion to holidays and family gatherings isn’t exactly a secret. Even my six-year-old knows that when daddy up and vanishes halfway through a six-hour dinner with extended relations whose names I can never keep straight in my head, I’m here, ostensibly doing work, but mostly just depleting my in-office scotch supply. Either that, or she thinks I moonlight as the building custodian.”

 

Karen huffs a laugh. “Unless you’ve got a Jekyll-Hyde-type situation going on and you do a complete one-eighty when you leave the office, I don't know how she could even _begin_ to think that, not when your office tries its best to look like the inside of a dumpster 95% of the time.”

 

Ellison bristles with mock-affront. “I have a system in place, Page, one that has served me very well these last twenty years, I’ll have you know.”

 

“Sure, if you say so.”

 

With a good-natured eye-roll, Ellison pushes himself off the doorframe. “Well, I’d better get back to the circus before anyone misses me too much.” Peering at her over his glasses, he adds, “And you should head home, too. All this,” he gestures to her cluttered desk, “will be here tomorrow morning; the story won’t just disappear overnight.”

 

“I will. Soon.”

 

Shrewd eyes narrow with skepticism.

 

Karen stares back, features schooled into her most earnest expression. “I promise.”

 

“Alright,” Ellison says, entirely unconvinced. “Goodnight, Karen.”

 

“See you tomorrow, and say hello to Lynette and the girls for me.”

 

“Will do.” And with a wave, he’s gone, slipping out of her office and maneuvering through the maze of cubicles and filing cabinets toward the waiting elevators.

 

Turning back to her laptop, Karen stares blankly at the dimmed screen, eyes unfocused and bleary. She sighs. If Ellison’s ill-timed visit hadn’t broken her concentration and momentum, she thinks she could’ve easily gone another two – maybe three – hours. But now? Now, with her boss having all but given her his blessing, all she wants to do is power down her laptop, curl up with a bottle of something strong and amber, and pretend her deadline wasn’t just five short days away.

 

And all of this, Karen laments, she could’ve done within the four walls of her office if it hadn’t been for the fact that she’d stirred the final few drops of Ellison’s Hanukkah-scotch into her coffee a few weeks back. Yes, she had the option of going home – there was a bottle of bourbon sitting unopened in her pantry – but her apartment is the last place she wants to be right now.

 

Because the thing was, her latest assignment at the _Bulletin_ (an exposé on Roxxon Energy’s dirty practices, which ran the gamut from insider trading to the decimation of entire villages in the name of securing a couple of gold deposits) wasn’t the only thing that had her reaching for the nearest bottle.

 

In addition to that, on the side (and unbeknownst to anyone), she’s been digging deeper into Wilson Fisk, beyond what she already knows and what’s on public record, trying to get her hands on as much information and history to piece together the life story of the man hell-bent on bringing nothing but blood, pain and destruction to the city.

 

Frank, after much needling and prodding, had recounted to her the details of his short stay at (and subsequent release from) Ryker’s. All of it – the extent of Fisk’s control over the prison, his cold and calculated ploy to eliminate the perceived competition, his narcissistic rant about long games and winning wars – had Karen simultaneously blanching with horror and shaking with fury. But most of all, it had steeled her resolve to do her part in keeping the maniacal bastard and his deranged sense of purpose from tearing down the city she’s grown to love, that has become her home.

 

So the hours not spent investigating and writing for the _Bulletin_ she devotes to researching and amassing intel, collating the information that Matt and Foggy might find helpful in crippling Fisk legally, and tallying up the weaknesses and vulnerabilities that Daredevil and the Punisher can exploit when the time came for Fisk to make good on his promise.

 

And because Karen was paranoid (justifiably so given the past year and a half) and couldn’t afford to have the wrong people catch wind of what she was doing, she’d taken to doing the work at home, where all her research was safely tucked away behind three deadbolts, blackout blinds and a top-of-the-line security system, all courtesy of Frank and friends.

 

Admittedly, it had seemed a tad excessive at first, but Karen’s glad that she’d taken the extra precautions. Because if someone were to walk into her apartment or steal a glimpse of her living room through a crack in the blinds at that very moment, they would find every inch of the small space buried under material on the notorious kingpin, files and documents strewn over or tacked onto any and every available flat surface. With her personal space monopolized as it was, some Fisk-related factoid catching her eye at every turn, she tries to steer clear of her apartment as much as she can these days. And tonight was no exception.

 

Karen heaves another sigh. No, what she wants – what she _needs_ – right now is a couple of familiar faces, a good stiff drink and a no-nonsense barkeep. Luckily, she knows the one spot where she can find all three.

 

* * *

  

Not twenty minutes later, Karen finds herself seated at the bar at Josie’s, a tumbler of scotch – neat, of course (she doubts the water situation has improved any since the last time she was here three months ago) – ensconced in her hands. There’s a Rangers game on and Josie is hustling behind the bar, the cramped space filled with patrons – most of them regulars (she’d spotted Tom at one of the pool tables and nodded a wordless hello to Rob on her way in) – notwithstanding the holiday weekend. It comforts Karen some, the knowledge that she isn’t the only one in the city spending the holiday solo. It makes her feel a little less lonely.

 

She watches the game mindlessly, absently sipping her drink as her eyes follow the speck of black travelling across the ice and ricocheting between players. It’s hypnotic and familiar, harkening back memories of makeshift pond rinks, hand-me-down skates and bruises she’d born like badges of honour. Both she and her brother had played as kids, the highlight of the dull, seemingly endless Vermont winters that descended upon their tiny town year after year. And while she’d loved the sport, it had been her brother’s passion, his dream to go pro. And Karen thinks he could’ve. He’d had the talent and the ambition, had it all planned out (there may or may not have been a vision board dedicated to it). If only –

 

“Karen.”

 

She startles out of her reverie, just barely catching herself from spilling the contents of her glass down the front of her favourite blouse. Carefully placing the tumbler on the scuffed bar top, she turns toward the cause of her near-disaster. She blinks. “Matt.”

 

“Sorry, did I startle you?” Concern laces his voice and carves furrows between his brows.

 

“A little,” Karen admits (there was no point lying – he’d no doubt sensed how she’d nearly toppled off her stool and picked up on the sudden increase in heart rate, the breathless way she’d said his name).

 

“Sorry,” he repeats.

 

Karen shakes her head. “No, don’t be. I was just really into the game, I guess.”

 

“Oh?” He settles onto a stool next to her, folding his cane. “Who’s playing?”

 

Karen lifts a hand for Josie’s attention. “Rangers and Canadiens. Five minutes into the third period, tied at two apiece.”

 

“Rooting for anyone in particular?”

 

“Oh, the Habs all the way.”

 

His brows shoot up in surprise. “Really?”

 

“Yeah. We lived right on the Canadian border and it was an easy one-hour drive to Montreal. Way more accessible than the Rangers or the Islanders, and an infinitely better team.”

 

Matt chuckles as Josie sidles up to them. “The usual, Matt?” the barkeep asks without preamble, wiping down the countertop.

 

He nods. “Please.”

 

With a sharp nod of her own, Josie tosses down a coaster and reaches into the fridge beneath the counter. Emerging with a bottle of something German, she pops the cap and slides it toward him. “Enjoy,” she says, already ambling away toward a customer signaling for a refill.

 

“Thanks, Josie,” Matt calls to her retreating back. He takes a sip, turning back to face Karen. “I never knew you were a hockey fan.”

 

She shrugs. “I guess it’d never come up in conversation before.”

 

“Do you play?”

 

“I did, when I was younger.”

 

He cocks a brow. “Were you good?”

 

Karen huffs indignantly. “I wasn’t just ‘good’. I _kicked ass_.”

 

Matt laughs. “I don't doubt that for a second.” He takes another pull of his beer, easing into his seat. “So what brings you to Josie’s on Easter Sunday of all days?”

 

“Ran out of alcohol at the office,” she answers without missing a beat. “You?”

 

“Ran out of alcohol at home.”

 

She raises her glass. “I’ll drink to that.”

 

The neck of his bottle clinks against the rim of her tumbler. “You were at the office?” Matt asks, studying her as she quaffs a mouthful of scotch, head tipped to one side with curiosity. “I mean, I get that the anniversary of Christ’s resurrection isn’t going to bring the world to a screeching halt, but…”

 

Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, Karen peers at her companion through her lashes. It’s an innocent enough question with an equally innocuous answer: she’d been catching up on research for her latest assignment. If she told him as much, she wouldn’t be lying – it was the god’s honest truth, after all. But the reason, the real _why_ that’s hanging in the air between them, unspoken but palpable, would go unanswered. Because she wouldn’t have been at the office getting caught up on her piece for the _Bulletin_ if she hadn’t neglected it in the first place, if she hadn’t been sidetracked – mind preoccupied and time monopolized – by her on-the-side, self-commissioned project.

 

Karen decides then and there that there’ve been enough lies and furtive, shifty-eyed glances between the two of them to last a lifetime, that she’d rather not be the one responsible for allowing this charade of honesty-by-omission to carry on. He hadn’t directly asked, thereby unwittingly (or maybe knowingly, she honestly couldn’t tell with him sometimes) giving her an out of sorts. But he deserves to know. She _wants_ him to know.

 

“You’ve been honest with me,” she says slowly (there’s no need to elaborate – the unspoken reference isn’t lost on Matt if the slight dip of his chin is any indication), “so I’ll return the favour.” She stares into the depths of her drink. “I’ve been looking into Fisk.”

 

Out of the corner of her eye, Karen sees his entire body tense, spine straightening and jaw clenching. “Karen,” he says, voice measured and calm but with an undercurrent of frustrated concern (it’s a tone with which she is all too familiar), “you need to _stay away_ from Fisk and anything that’s even remotely associated with him. Right now, you’re _safe_ , and we need to keep it that way. You know firsthand how dangerous he is. And if he finds out you’ve been sniffing around, asking questions you shouldn’t be asking…” He shakes his head. “Once he perceives you to be a threat, he’ll come after you, incarcerated or not. He’s got the connections and the means, and he’ll put them to use without an ounce of hesitation if given even half a reason—”

 

“He’s come after me before, Matt,” Karen interjects irritably ( _twice_ , she wants to add, the word teetering precariously on the tip of her tongue, just barely suppressing the urge to blurt it out). The hard edge in her voice gives Matt pause. “And I won’t let myself be a victim again.”

 

The hand that rests on the counter balls into a fist. “Karen,” he implores, voice losing all the ferocity and conviction from moments before, her name coming out as the closest thing to an entreaty she’s heard from him.

 

Karen sighs, deflating a little at how small and helpless he sounds. Hesitating for the briefest of moments, she places a hand over his white-knuckled fist. “I’m being careful, Matt.” His grip loosens then opens, hand flipping to bring them palm-to-palm. Calloused fingers lacing through hers, he holds onto her like a lifeline.

 

She swallows around the lump in her throat. “You’re allowed to be concerned, Matt; I have no control over that. It’d be like you trying to convince me that I have nothing to worry about when it comes to your extracurricular activities, for a lack of a better term; that I shouldn’t be terrified out of my fucking skull at the thought of you putting on that suit and mask and jumping off rooftops to face off against guys twice your size. With nothing but your billy club, no less.”

 

“Karen—”

 

She shakes her head. “I know what you’re going to say: ‘I can take care of myself.’ And the thing is, Matt, so can I.” She tears her gaze away from their clasped hands to look at him. “I want to do my part in keeping the city safe. And I’m contributing in the only way I know how. So could you please just let me do it?”

 

There’s a long pause. “Okay,” Matt finally accedes, not completely mollified (the grim set of his jaw remains intact) but knowing that this wasn’t a fight where he would emerge the victor.

 

“You two need anything else?” Josie asks, shuffling toward their end of the bar, polishing a glass with a fraying dishrag.

 

Karen extricates her hand. Stealing a glance at her watch, she shakes her head. “I don’t think so, Josie. I’d better call it a night.”

 

Matt simply shakes his head ‘no’ in response.

 

Josie shrugs. “Suit yourselves,” she says before wandering away from them again.

 

Karen sighs, picking up her glass. “And another long day of sorting through dry-as-the-Sahara financial statements and annual reports awaits.” She knocks back what was left of her drink, grimacing as the liquid burns a path down her throat.

 

Matt’s lips take on a faint curve, breaking his somber exterior. “Ah, that explains your alcohol of choice tonight.”

 

“Apparently, investigative journalism isn’t quite the 24/7, non-stop thrill-ride Hollywood would have you believe,” she jokes. “It wouldn’t be an exaggeration when I say that there are times when I am bored to literal tears.”

 

“But you can’t deny that you’ve got a knack for it. Digging up dirt, uncovering the truth – it all seems to come second nature to you. I’m pretty sure you saved the firm a fortune, what with you basically doing all the investigative work and probably doing a far better job than anyone we might’ve hired. Come to think of it, I think you may have been doing more investigative work than secretarial at Nelson & Murdock.” He shakes his head, sheepish. “We really should’ve offered you a raise.”

 

Karen hums in distracted agreement, rummaging through her purse. “Maybe. But from what funds?” She fishes out her wallet and snaps it open. “Though I probably would’ve accepted an extra portion of those glorious thank-you empanadas Mrs. Bautista sent us for getting her loan discharged…”

 

“Um, no, I think Foggy would back me up when I say that we would’ve parted with those empanadas only on the pain of death. Or if they were pried right out of our cold, dead fingers.”

 

Karen laughs, pulling out a couple bills from her wallet. “I figured as much.”

 

She tucks the notes under her empty glass and slides off her stool, shrugging on her coat. “You know, in all seriousness, aside from the work we did, what I liked most about Nelson & Murdock was getting to see and work with you and Foggy everyday.”

 

His smile turns sad and contrite. “It probably doesn’t mean much to you now, but I’m sorry, Karen. For screwing it all up.”

 

“I know,” Karen says softly, “but I’m not. Not entirely, anyway.”

 

Matt cocks his head in question.

 

“Because while I may miss you and Foggy and the work we did together, I love what I’m doing at the _Bulletin_ , the thankless parts and all. And in a way, I have you to thank for that. I don’t think I would’ve had it in me to leave you guys and accept Ellison’s offer if things hadn’t already been deteriorating between the three of us.” She lifts a shoulder in a half-shrug. “You made the decision easier for me.”

 

Matt shakes his head ruefully. “Still doesn’t change the fact that I was a callous prick with his head stuck up my ass. You and Foggy deserved better from me.”

 

“Yes, but maybe you can take some solace in knowing that some good came out of you having your head up your ass. Not many people can say the same about their asshole behaviour."

 

He chuckles, eyes crinkling with mirth. “I’ll try.” Laughter fading, he adds, “I’m glad I ran into you, Karen.”

 

Karen knots the belt of her coat. “Yeah,” she agrees with a contented sigh, “this was nice.”

 

“It was.”

 

“We should do it again sometime. Maybe even lure Foggy away from that fancy new office of his. Because name partner at Hogarth Chao Benowitz & Nelson or not, how do you turn down the prospect of cheap alcohol and questionable bar snacks?”

 

“The Foggy I know certainly wouldn’t say no to such an enticing a proposal.”

 

“And if we happen to make a habit of it,” Karen continues, hefting her tote onto her shoulder, “you may even have to consider reopening that infamous Nelson-Murdock tab.” Casting a furtive glance down the bar to confirm that the establishment’s eponymous proprietor was out of earshot, she adds, “And I’m willing to bet Josie could be persuaded to overlook the ‘Absolutely No Tabs’ rule a second time for you two. Because no matter how much she may deny it, I think secretly misses having you guys around.”

 

He smiles. “Yeah, but we’ll have to rename it, make it the Nelson-Murdock-Page tab this time around.”

 

The suggestion catches her off-guard. Warmth blooms in her chest. “That’s… quite a mouthful.”

 

“Not any more than the name of Foggy’s firm.”

 

She laughs. “You got me there.” Stepping forward, she places a hand on his arm. “Goodnight, Matt.”

 

His hand lands on top of hers, a warm solid weight. “Goodnight, Karen.”

 

With one last squeeze and a wave goodbye to Josie, Karen weaves her way to the exit. Once outside, she inhales deeply, the crisp evening air a welcome change to the musty haze of the bar.

 

She feels lighter than she has in months. Because what she’d said to him all those months ago (“ _You’re not alone, Matt. You never were._ ”) rings truer now, feeling less like an empty platitude and more like a promise she thinks she can keep. Because this time, there’s no horned mask between them, no secrets that separate them. This time, they would face what was coming – whatever that might be – clear-eyed, prepared and (most importantly)  _together_. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading and please drop a kudos and review!


End file.
